As they drove past the Aerotech Office Park, Six noticed the run-down buildings and the makeshift refugee camp set up around them. NCR troopers stood around, looking tired and disinterested, while the refugees themselves shuffled about, hollow-eyed and desperate.
One soldier, wearing a beret, suddenly started shouting in frustration, kicking at the dirt. Curious, Six slowed the War Bus to a stop.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
"Looks like someone's having a bad day."
Boone, always observant, leaned forward.
"That's not just frustration. That's a man on edge."
Six opened the door and stepped out, approaching the soldier with his hands casually resting near his holsters.
"Something wrong, trooper?"
The man turned to them, his face tightening before he sighed.
"Captain Parker. NCR military police."
He glanced at Six's and his crew's gear, clearly recognizing they weren't just some other regular wastelanders.
"Are you all with the NCR?"
Six shook his head.
"Independent. But I help where I can."
Parker hesitated, then exhaled sharply.
"Maybe you can. People have been going missing from the refugee camp. No signs of violence, no feuds breaking out. They just... vanish."
Rebecca frowned.
"And the NCR isn't doing anything?"
Parker scowled.
"You think I don't want to? Command doesn't care. These refugees aren't a priority. I don't have the men to investigate properly."
Boone, ever the sharp-eyed sniper, scanned the area.
"Doesn't sound random. Someone's making them disappear."
Raul scratched his chin.
"Sounds like either slavers or something worse."
Roger's eyes narrowed.
"Either way, someone's taking advantage of these people."
Six nodded.
"Alright. We'll look into it."
Parker looked relieved.
"Appreciate it. If you find anything, let me know."
With that, Six and his crew stepped deeper into the refugee camp, scanning the faces of those around them. The people here were scared—more than just the usual desperation of wasteland survivors. Someone, or something, was preying on them.
"Alright."
Six muttered.
"let's find out who's behind this."
As they walked through the camp, Six's gaze swept over the refugees. They huddled in small groups, whispering anxiously, their eyes darting toward the armed newcomers. Some shrank away as Six and his team passed, while others simply stared, hollow and resigned.
Boone kept his rifle slung but ready.
"They know something. We just need to get them to talk."
Rebecca sighed.
"Easier said than done. They're terrified."
Six stopped near a woman sitting on a broken crate, her arms wrapped protectively around a young boy. Dirt streaked their faces, and the child clutched an old, threadbare teddy bear.
He crouched down to their level, keeping his voice calm.
"Hey. I heard people have been going missing. Do you know anything?"
The woman tensed but didn't look away. She hesitated, glancing around as if afraid someone was watching.
"It's the ones who talk too much."
She finally whispered.
"Or the ones who go off alone at night. They just... disappear."
Roger crossed his arms.
"Any idea where they go?"
She shook her head quickly.
"No. But there's this man. Smooth talker, always promising work. Says he can get people out of here."
Raul snorted.
"Sounds like a slaver."
Boone's jaw tightened.
"Or worse."
Six stood up.
"Where can I find him?"
The woman hesitated again, then nodded toward an old office building near the edge of the camp.
"He hangs around there. Calls himself Trent."
Six glanced at his team.
"Let's pay Trent a visit."
As they made their way toward the office building, the air grew heavier. The refugees averted their eyes, shuffling away as if merely acknowledging Trent's existence could make them disappear next.
Boone, walking beside Six, kept his voice low.
"If this guy's working with slavers, he won't go down easy."
Rebecca cracked her knuckles.
"Then we make him talk."
Raul chuckled.
"I like how you think, chica."
The building was a crumbling ruin of its former self, the faded remnants of pre-war corporate logos barely clinging to the walls. A few desperate refugees lingered near the entrance, watching warily but saying nothing.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with the stench of sweat and desperation. Makeshift bedding lined the walls, and scattered piles of junk hinted at temporary occupants.
In the center of the room, lounging against an overturned filing cabinet like he owned the place, was a man in a ragged but well-maintained leather jacket.
Trent.
He was tall, lean, with slicked-back hair and the smug confidence of someone who thought he was untouchable. A couple of hired muscle stood near him, hands resting on pistols.
Trent glanced up, flashing a practiced smile.
"Well, well. New faces. What can I do for you fine folks today?"
Six didn't return the smile.
"You can start by explaining why people who talk to you keep disappearing."
Trent's grin didn't waver, but Six caught the slight twitch in his jaw.
"Hey now, let's not jump to conclusions. I help people, see? Give 'em opportunities. NCR sure as hell ain't doing that."
Rebecca crossed her arms.
"And where exactly do these 'opportunities' lead?"
Trent shrugged.
"Safer places. Better work. Food, shelter."
His eyes flicked over Six's group, assessing.
"People desperate enough will take any chance they get."
Boone's fingers flexed near his rifle strap.
"And yet, none of them are coming back to tell the tale."
Six stepped forward, his presence looming.
"So I'll ask again. Where are they?"
The room tensed. Trent's goons shifted, hands creeping toward their weapons.
Trent exhaled, shaking his head.
"Man, I hate when people don't know how to mind their own business."
Six smirked.
"So do I."
And then the room exploded into motion.
Trent's hand darted for his pistol, but Six was faster. His revolver cleared leather in a blur, the barrel barking once. The bullet slammed into Trent's shoulder, spinning him backward into the filing cabinet.
Boone fired a single, precise shot, dropping one of the hired guns before the man could even aim. Rebecca lunged forward, slamming her fist into the second goon's throat before ripping his pistol from his hands and cracking it against his skull. He crumpled to the floor.
Raul, ever the opportunist, strolled over and planted his boot on Trent's wounded shoulder, earning a sharp hiss of pain from the slaver.
"You were saying, amigo?"
Trent groaned, his cocky grin replaced with a grimace.
"Alright, alright! No need to get all trigger-happy." He coughed, clutching his wound. "They're taken east, toward the old rail yard. That's all I know, I swear!"
Six exchanged a glance with Boone, who gave a small nod.
"He's lying."
Boone muttered.
Rebecca crouched next to Trent, tilting her head.
"See, here's the thing. We don't like liars."
She yanked a knife from her belt and twirled it lazily.
"But we like cutting through bullshit."
Trent's breath hitched.
"Alright! Alright. The old sewer tunnels under the park. There's a passage to a bunker—big operation, lots of muscle. You go in there, you're gonna have a fight on your hands."
Six holstered his revolver.
"That's more like it."
He turned to Boone.
"Looks like we're going underground."